


Holy Libation

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [44]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Other, Stabbing, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-10 01:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17416448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: You've built your academic career on knowledge gained through a deal with a fallen angel. He expects something in return.





	Holy Libation

**Author's Note:**

> pretension: the fanfic 2 electric boogaloo

He brings with him a scent like musk and sea breeze, indefinite and fleeting.

You never hear his footsteps coming down the hall or the creaking of your office door, but as your fingertips move across the worn spines of old, out-of-print texts on your bookshelf, you see a shadow fall across you, the silhouette of great wings stretching out on either side.

You wait to speak, taking a deep breath and trying to calm your rapid heartbeat, taming the panic that races through you when you feel his presence.

“This is unusual,” you say evenly, choosing a book at random to pull off of the shelf and disguise the tremor in your hands. “You couldn’t wait until I was home from work?”

You feel a hand on your shoulder, grip firm with a sense of ownership. “My sincerest apologies for intruding,” he says in a mocking tone. “I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself. When you’re so focused, I just,” he pauses, smoothing his hand down your arm, and leans in to rest his chin on your shoulder, _“want to break you.”_

It takes everything you have not to shiver with his breath tickling your ear but you’re determined not to give him the satisfaction. You thumb through a textbook on ancient Egyptian burial customs as though you’re looking for something in particular. The weight of his hand disappears but you still feel his smoldering gaze at your back.

“How’s your dissertation going?” he asks in a deceptively casual tone.

You know where the conversation is headed and you tread carefully. “It’s going well,” you say, “thanks to you. Your translations of those proto-literate scrolls were invaluable to my argument. No one else has the same insight.”

“How could they?” he muses. “The so-called modern experts of those languages can only offer error-laden approximate translations, at best. Your work is going to be revolutionary.” He pauses. You hear his fingers drumming against the hardwood surface of your desk and glance back over your shoulder cautiously, finding him leaning back in your chair with his legs crossed, smiling. 

“I can’t help but wonder, though,” he goes on. “Doesn’t taking the credit for someone else’s work keep you up at night? You’re earning your degree through academic dishonesty, after all.” He smirks. “Shouldn’t I receive credit as your consultant, at the very least?”

You regard him with a neutral expression. “It would be difficult to give you credit,” you say. “The department would want to consult with you, and they’d be incredibly interested in how you’ve achieved native fluency in a long-dead language.”

“Fair point,” he allows. “But we both know you could care less about inconveniencing me. Where does your hesitation really come from?”

Frowning, you shut the book in your hand and place it back on the shelf, crossing your arms over your chest. “If I’m being perfectly honest,” you say, “then I would like to point out that you’ve never dealt with the vultures that swarm academia.”

“Ah. Well, you’d be right,” he says with a sigh, standing from your chair. You flinch and take a step back, your shoulders bumping the bookshelf. He comes closer and corners you against it. “Not in any official capacity, anyway. I do enjoy the company of academics. You’re all so very self-righteous.” 

He suddenly shoves you back against the shelf, wrapping a hand around your throat and squeezing until your fingers are raking down his arm trying to pry him off of you. He ignores your struggles with a pleased smile and leans in, voice lowering. “And you beg so sweetly when I deny you what you want.”

“Cain,” you say, choking on his name. Your eyelids flutter and you feel your feet leave the ground as he lifts you up higher. “S-stop, I can’t….”

“You’ve been so nervous lately,” he comments, fingers tightening painfully. “I see your trembling, your frightened glances. You think to yourself, ‘nothing in life is free, he must want something in return.’”

He drops you and you collapse in a heap on the floor, coughing, heaving, clutching your bruised skin where a mark in the shape of his hand is forming. He crouches down beside you and your breath catches in your throat in fear at the malicious glint in his eyes.

“You’d be right, my dear.”

“What do you want?” you ask hoarsely.

His smile widens. “What are you willing to sacrifice?”

“I-I’ll—!”

He cuts you off, grasping your hair and yanking you upright. “Think before you speak,” he hisses. “The entertainment your arrogance offers only goes so far. I want something lasting, something that will remind you of each and every favor I have done for you.” He trails his free hand down the front of your throat and over your chest. 

Your heart beats faster when he splays his hand there, digging his fingers in as though he’s considering tearing you open. 

“I never want you to forget that your accomplishments are not your own,” he murmurs. “You would never have gotten this far without me.”

You swallow a disagreement but he sees the defiance in your eyes.

“Oh, you think you could’ve figured it out on your own?” he taunts. “Maybe. Maybe you could have. But you’ll never know now, will you? You took the easy way out.”

He drags you up to your feet and throws you over your desk, papers and pens scattering, the edge digging into your back. He slams his hands on either side of your body and looms over you, and you’re paralyzed by fear. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, the office silent save for your frightened breathing.

“I’ll ask again,” he says. “What are you willing to sacrifice?”

You take a deep breath, shivering. “I’ll give you whatever you want to take from me,” you whisper.

His smile is sharp when he says, “Good answer.”

He takes a fountain pen from the edge of the desk and tugs your shirt down to expose your collarbones, running the metal tip over your skin. You try to hold still, unsure of what he’ll do.

“When you defend your thesis and they ask who spent long nights on these translations,” he says, “what will you tell them?”

You hesitate. His eyes flick to your face and narrow disapprovingly. “That it was me,” you say quickly.

“But what is the truth?”

“It was you.”

He retracts the pen and you relax, until he brings it down hard into your shoulder, stabbing you through the fabric of your shirt. A scream tears from your throat and you instinctively try to pull it out but your hands fall back against the table, wrists crossing over your head, held there by an invisible force. He cups your face with his other hand, stroking your cheek gently as he digs the sharp metal of the pen further through your flesh, blood and ink welling up and staining your shirt.

“When they look at the conclusions you drew, at the brilliant deductions you made, what will you claim?”

“Th-that is was me,” you sob, “b-but that’s not true, it was you, I know it was you.”

“Do you?” he murmurs, his grip tightening around the handle as he forces it further through your shoulder. You hear something snap as the tip breaks off inside of you and whimper when he abandons the pen and reaches across your desk for a new one.

“Yes,” you cry, writhing in pain, “I know it was you, I know that, I swear.”

“Vainglory is a cardinal sin,” he tells you. “One of the old ones. You can tell me you know the truth all you want, but you will lie when I leave.”

He takes the pen and jams it into your skin further down your arm, below the first. You choke on a scream and feel blood running down your arm, smearing across the desk. “What do you want from me?” you whimper.

He chuckles. “I want you to _repent.”_ Your arms strain, fingers shaking and back arching as you try to draw yourself inward and protect yourself, but you can’t move. Cain takes the pen in a harsh grip and drags it down through your skin, ripping your arm open, and your head falls back against the desk as you cry out in agony. 

“Your kind are so good at it,” he murmurs. “You know how to pray and beg, how to fall to your knees in supplication for forgiveness.” You hear him laughing as teasingly pulls at an exposed tendon with the gore-covered tip of the pen, making you writhe. “And your memories are so short,” he hisses, “because you will commit the same evils you have asked to be forgiven for given half the chance.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you sob.

“Don’t apologize,” he coos, leaning in so close that you feel his breath hot against your face, see his eyes glittering with satisfaction and smell distant winds on his skin. “I forgive you, flawed mortal that you are. And I will forgive you, again and again, every time you displease me. All you have to do is bleed.”

He rips out the pen and tears something inside of you. You scream until your throat is sore and your voice is nothing more than a hoarse rattle, until your tears have dried to your face and your body is weak and limp.

When someone from the next office down finds you, you want to ask how they didn’t hear, why they didn’t help you, but they just look baffled by the blood spattered across your office and the books laying open on the floor.

You are assured, as you lie in a hospital bed with an IV drip embedded in your skin, that the police are searching the building for intruders, and you stare at the ceiling despondently. 

It won’t matter. They won’t find anything. He’ll be back the next time you share your research or give a presentation on your findings. He’ll be back after your dissertation defense, after you move to a permanent office with similarly esteemed colleagues, after any event in which you benefit from your work and feel even an ounce of pride.

 _Pride is also a sin,_ you think idly, staring out the dark window at lights in the distance.

Late at night, you think you smell the sea again. You lay on your side, trembling, and pretend you don’t see the shadow of wings stretching over the bed.


End file.
